Stand By Me
by Roscommon
Summary: This is a view from Helen Plum's perspective. How the heck did Edna Mazur's daughter turn into Helen Plum? What if she actually has understandable reasons behind what she says and does? We only see her through her daughter's eyes, and maybe Steph doesn't know everything. A story of awkward, stubborn love. Angst. (Note: Sympathetic to Helen. Neither Babe nor Cupcake.)


Reading JE and fanfic stories I keep trying to figure out why Helen Plum is the difficult woman that she is. This story assumes that she genuinely loves her daughters and has reasons for what she says and does. In other words, I'm intentionally attempting to depict a worldview where Helen Plum makes sense. I gave her the backstory of someone known to my family, and a lot of pieces fell into place. After all, our parents already lived a lifetime by the time we are born and their traumas affect them as surely as ours affect us.

****If you cannot abide a story with a sympathetic view of Helen Plum, then don't read it.****

I'm completely, respectfully serious. If you're interested to see how I handle this difficult character as a writer, read on. If you just fundamentally cannot abide her, then skip over this story. I love my readers; I want you to be happy, too.

The views expressed here are what Helen told me to say, not necessarily my own opinions.

I don't own these characters; nor do I make any profit. If you recognize them, they belong to JE.

* * *

"_Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story."  
_– _John Barth, The End of the Road_

**Stand By Me**

Things were different back then, when it happened.

In those days, you didn't talk about such things.

Back then It was all about the girl's reputation, and how "boys will be boys." Any girl who got in trouble... well it was her own fault, wasn't it? If a boy cornered her in the janitor's closet after she finished cheerleading at the game, and took her virginity while she pushed away as hard as she could, she must have tempted him. Otherwise, a good looking boy like that, why would he do such a thing?

Look at those cheerleading costumes, after all. Look at how those girls jump up and down, smiling, their legs and cleavage inviting for all to see. Of course, it's possible for a good girl to still be a cheerleader. But if a girl isn't entirely virtuous to begin with, a costume like that could lead even a good boy to get the wrong idea. Look at those girls; you could hardly blame him.

Cruel voices, relentless voices, but eventually the voices quieted, and people moved on. Decades passed and the memory of scandal was replaced by other events, other voices, and the acceptance that comes after a whole life lived after a scandal was exorcised.

Such that, until today, all that was left of that horrible time was my deeply-buried memory of Baby Boy Mazur, registered as stillborn at 6.5 months in Philadelphia, where I'd stayed with my mother's cousin's family that winter and spring.

That, and the memory of those decades-old voices, many no longer alive, that still played in my head whenever things got difficult.

But today, it's all come crashing back as I sit here in our bedroom, letter in hand, waiting for Frank to return home.

I came up here and closed the door as soon as I signed for the certified letter. We don't get many of those, so I was nervous to begin with. And I can't remember ever getting one addressed to me, except for the one time that Frank went to a veteran's ceremony in DC shortly after we were married and asked them to send his certificate and medal to me at home.

As soon as I read the letter in the privacy of our bedroom, I called Frank and asked him to please come home. I didn't say why, and he knows me well enough that he didn't ask over the phone. He just told me to wait for him and he'd come home in about an hour, as soon as he dropped off his current fare up in Franklin Township.

I could hear my mother puttering around downstairs, but she's used to me wandering off in the middle of the day. She knows I can't abide the soap operas she likes to watch, between flipping to watch the Weather Channel. We live in the middle of one of the nation's largest living soap operas, so I honestly have no need to watch them on TV. As for the weather, well, just look outside and you can figure it out. When you can't figure it out, it's Hurricane Sandy, so watching it churn on TV seems useless. For goodness sake, either get in the car and drive, or pull out the good stuff and hunker in the kitchen until the power comes back on.

At least I knew she'd stay downstairs and I wouldn't be interrupted for at least another two hours. More than enough time for Frank to return home.

I looked back down at the letter, now crumpled in my right hand. It seems that, after living in Ohio for over 30 years, John Kader from the Chambersburg neighborhood of Trenton passed away unexpectedly last month, and they just read his will. I could barely read his name in the letter without flinching.

He'd been two years older than me, one of the starters on the football team in his last two years of high school. He was definitely part of the "in" crowd back then. When I was a senior he'd come to the homecoming game on a long weekend from Fort Benning. Frank was among the group who'd come along with him, though I hadn't really paid attention at the time. Back then I knew who Frank was, but he was just another of the older boys who hung out in John's orbit.

When John noticed me at halftime and asked if I'd join him for a walk after the game, I'd felt so special.

He was handsome and from a well-known Hungarian 'Burg family, and he'd joined the Army after graduation. In short, he was a boy from our background who was going somewhere. He was a bit of a hero. And, I'm ashamed to admit it, I was a starry eyed – he was a glamorous older boy who seemed interested in me.

So, when John left me a few hours later in the closet, in pain and trying to reassemble my clothes while crying a river of mascara down my face, I just felt dirty. I had scurried home, trying my best to not be seen. Trying my best to bury all memory of that evening. He and his buddies returned to bootcamp first thing the next morning, and I hadn't seen him again since that day.

Now, 35 years later I get a letter out-of-the-blue informing me that he'd had a fatal heart attack and left me his grandmother's house in his will, along with two cars.

Frank will help me think this through. He has been my anchor, my mainstay, ever since those dark days. About six months after I came back from Philadelphia, alone, Frank showed up at my parents' front door one afternoon. He was wearing his dress uniform and asked to speak to me. I'd become timid and rarely ventured out except to go work my shift at the button factory. I didn't even go to church anymore because of how everyone looked at me at St. Stephen's. Frank, though, had such a kind and shy expression as he stood at the door, holding his uniform cap in his hand, that I agreed.

We went for a walk down to the park. He told me later that he was careful to make sure I always could see other people walking and driving by, so I wouldn't be nervous with him. That day, however, he simply told me that he'd heard some rumors while he was away, and after an evening of drinking a couple of weekends ago, he'd confirmed his suspicions.

Politely, quietly, he told me that he'd beaten up his former bunkmate John Kader yesterday afternoon and left him in the infirmary needing stitches and a cast on his arm. I remember staring at him in fear and confusion, which must have shown on my face.

Frank was sitting on a bench and he looked down at his hat, which he was now clutching in both hands. He said that he wasn't a man of many words, but that what John did was absolutely wrong. I remember that whole conversation so clearly. Frank looked at me, then down again, and went on to say that he'd always thought I was a kind person.

He floored me by saying that he'd been too shy to talk to me back when we were younger, but he'd wanted to ask me out his whole senior year. When he'd heard the rumors from back home he'd been sick to his stomach, worried that his own interest from high school was the reason John had noticed me at homecoming. He said that John had denied it. Later, I found out that the denial had come while John lay bleeding from a broken nose and smashed cheek, with a shattered wrist and a few cracked ribs.

That day in the park, though, Frank simply looked up at me and told me I'd never have to worry about John again. And he said if there was anything I needed, he'd be happy to help. We sat for awhile and talked about other less consequential things. It was the first normal conversation I'd had in almost a year.

As we walked back to my parents' house, he asked if he could keep in touch, and maybe visit me again the next time he was in Trenton. After the year I'd been through, I could barely keep from crying at his kindness, and from having someone who just wanted to talk with me. I gladly agreed.

Over the next year I found that he was a regular letter writer, a conscientious brother and son, and a quiet companion at family dinners. He treated me like I was the most precious woman on earth. The first time he asked my opinion on something and actually took it into account when making a decision, I fell head over heels for him. In my life, no man had ever done that.

When he finally asked me to marry him, I felt like I'd won the lottery.

We got married as soon as was considered respectable. It was a small wedding, mostly attended by his family. My parents were there, and my father walked me down the aisle, but I didn't really want most of my family there. And, honestly, they didn't want to be there.

The Hungarian community at that time was especially close knit. Though people in Trenton worked together across the communities, evenings and weekends were spent with family. We all lived within blocks of each other. When I was growing up, some people still spoke the Hungarian Magyar language at home even after a couple of generations, just to keep the memory alive in the family.

Most notably, the great 'Burg connection-builder, the Catholic church, was still separated by background. The Hungarian church was just down the street from the Italian church, and three blocks from the German church. But, though I attended church almost every Sunday through high school, I had never stepped foot into the Italian church until pre-Cana with Frank.

After being accepted into Frank's church, into Frank's life, I never went back to St. Stephen's Hungarian church until my father's funeral.

After our engagement, Frank's family basically adopted me. They were a close-knit family and Frank wanted to live near his parents, so we stayed in the 'Burg. With them, I felt like I had a family again for the first time since that homecoming game years before. Don't get me wrong, my mother always stayed by my side and defended me as best she could. However, she's always been a bit scattered and there wasn't much she could do to defend against the whispers and sour looks that followed me like a shadow.

Some people had guessed what had happened at the football game, since there really are very few secrets in the 'Burg. And it was fairly obvious what had occurred after I'd run out of my morning classes a few times, only to throw up spectacularly in the hallway. Another loose, ambitious girl tried to snare a boy from one of the 'Burg's leading families. After that, most of the Hungarian families were polite but cold to me.

My mother also tried her best to cushion me from my father's aloof disappointment. But, again, there was only so much she could do. He had never been a warm father; he had been more of a provider and my mother was the heart of the household. That was the way of his family and I remember my Granddad Mazur being the same way. After the discovery that I was pregnant, though, it went to a new level. My father hadn't spoken again to me directly for years.

In fact, it wasn't until after my first daughter was born – which was over 11 months after Frank and I were married, thank you very much for asking. And then, it was only because I made it absolutely clear that my father would have nothing to do with my children as long as he treated me badly. As long as he let his own family act like I was a whore. If he wanted grandchildren, then he was darned well coming through me if he ever wanted to see them.

He never apologized; instead he spoke through gestures. He started making eye contact with me again and called me by name. After my second daughter was born, he sent flowers. After that, he started sending flowers each year on my birthday. That was what I could get, so I accepted it for my daughters' sake.

With his acceptance, the rest of the Hungarian families gradually fell in line. With the further support of Frank's family, who clearly accepted me, I was again part of the community. This was especially true as I fulfilled the respectable role of "married mother of children." I was glad to feel at home again. Honestly, I had considered moving away from the 'Burg before I'd started seeing Frank, but I'd felt so alien in Philadelphia. Being here with Frank felt "right."

Being in Frank's family had been a blessing in more ways than that. I learned how to cook Italian-American from Frank's mother, alongside Frank's youngest sister Maria. I learned how to keep house and set meals the way Frank was used to, and I eventually enrolled our daughters in the same parochial grade school where his family had gone. Though most of his siblings moved away over the years, having them there during our early years meant that our daughters got to be part of an extended family.

My biggest relief was that Frank's mother gave me another role model for how to be a parent. My own mother, though caring, had been all over the map in terms of upbringing. Even when I was young, it was clear that my mother was unconventional, and I had been out-of-control as a child. I never believed anything bad would happen to me. What if my children were the same? When my first child was a girl, I knew I needed a better parenting model to ensure her safety.

Seeing Frank's mother, I saw that my own mother had had given me guidelines on a situation-by-situation basis. It had been like a string of things to memorize rather than principles that could be applied. Don't shout when your father is home. Don't climb trees when others can see you. Always be careful that your skirt doesn't ride up when playing. Don't take rides or gifts from strangers.

Frank's mother showed me the value of being firm and setting boundaries. She made it clear that she was looking after her daughters' and granddaughters' safety and well-being. They rebelled, like all children do. But they grew up knowing what was right, what was wrong, and what was dangerous. What I had to find out by raw experimentation, they grew up knowing.

It turned out that Valerie was Frank's daughter, through-and-through, and I never had to worry about her. She was my miracle, proof that I could move forward with my life, have a family, have living children. She grew up cheerful, obedient, and sensible. She got married and moved to California with her successful husband. Now, of course, she's home again after he came down with a bad case of "seven year itch" with the babysitter. Although my family's gypsy roots are starting to show themselves, at least she's found another husband to protect her reputation.

Stephanie, though. Oh Stephanie. From her toddler years it was clear that she was my child, my mother's granddaughter. I told her "don't touch the stove, you'll burn yourself." So she'd immediately reached out to touch it to find out what it means to burn herself. After her hand healed, she did it again to see if it was a fluke. By four years of age she'd started climbing out her bedroom window on the second story. Frank nailed it closed after the second time the Olahs across the street called to tell us they saw her sitting on the windowsill swinging her legs.

When that Morelli boy took Steph into the garage as a child, my fear and fury went through the roof. That would **not **happen to my daughter. Not on my watch. I never told Frank exactly what happened so he didn't understand why I kept her inside that whole summer. Honestly, I was afraid Frank would take matters into his own hands, after which he'd be taken away some night by Uncle Louie Morelli who was known to be a "made man."

I made up a story that she was grounded for acting out. And then I spent the whole summer trying to teach her how to keep herself safe. Since she had almost no physical fear response, I tried to scare her. I tried to teach her how to recognize when she was being fooled by boys. I tried to teach her what my own mother had not managed to instill in me.

She did seem more cautious after that, and made it almost through high school without notable scandals.

Then when that same boy violated her as a teenager in the pastry shop, my life flashed before my eyes. He took whatever girl he wanted, ruined her reputation, and then retreated to the military. Thank God she didn't become pregnant. However, at that moment I would have taken Frank's gun, driven to the base where he was stationed, and shot that boy myself. I would have gladly taken the family's wrath and the government's punishment down on myself to defend her and make sure it never happened again.

Frank was equally furious, but more level-headed. He pointed out that it wouldn't help our daughters if we were in prison after compounding a scandal with murder. He counseled keeping her in the home while he dealt with the situation. It still wasn't safe to go directly, toe-to-toe, with the Morellis. So he took the case to his third cousin Vito Plumeroni, who supervised one of the Port Authority docks in Mercer County.

Vito took it up with Louie Morelli. After some long evenings, from which Frank returned drained, it was decided that nothing would happen to Joe. Uncle Louie, though, would make sure someone had a long, private talk with Joe about things that were not acceptable behavior going forward. In return, Stephanie should stay at home with a low profile for a couple of months, during which time it would be clearly communicated that no slander from the pastry shop would be tolerated against Stephanie or our family.

I never asked what that had cost Frank, though I had my suspicions. I did know that he took the early retirement package from the Post Office shortly afterward. And, not long after that, he'd started driving a cab part-time without having to pay for the medallion that licensed his car with the city. I knew he had a small set of regulars, and I never asked who they were. A few of them needed rides like clockwork, but sometimes we'd get a call in the middle of the night from someone needing a ride.

Sometimes Frank didn't return from those until first light in the morning. On those nights I'd get out of bed to pray until he returned.

However it happened, though, I was deeply grateful that my daughter had gotten a second chance. Just like I had gotten a second chance when Frank had lifted me up. And, I'm not embarrassed to say that Frank and I were both immensely proud when she ran over that boy and broke his leg when he was here on leave. After that, I heard that "the families" had decided she was righteous and there were no more doubts about her. Not only did her father stand by her honor, but she demanded it herself.

I was happy when Stephanie decided to go to college. The first in our family. Maybe she could get a degree and make her own way. She's always been head-and-shoulders smarter than everyone else. When she returned home after college with indifferent grades and little interest in a career, I was so disappointed. It's true that her teachers always said she just wasn't applying herself at school, but college was such a big opportunity.

Well anyway, after she returned to the 'Burg, we all started looking around for nice eligible men for her. Then she met that lawyer Dickie. A man with good prospects who was from Trenton, but not the 'Burg. He was neither Italian nor Hungarian, so I'd thought he could help her find a place where she could comfortably be herself and have a nice life.

Of course, in retrospect, that was a miscalculation. Since he wasn't from the 'Burg we didn't actually know much about him. When Stephanie found him cheating on her, it broke my heart. He had seemed so polite and on his way to a good middle-class life. And yet, he had a mistress right out of the gate. My poor Stephanie. I thought that she could still salvage the marriage through counseling just like Frank's sister Lena had done. And Frank was ready to explain things to Dickie in a way he would understand.

But Stephanie has never chosen subtlety. I personally think she should have quietly gotten an annulment through the church by petitioning infidelity the way our neighbor Sandra Marchionni did. I'll never quite understand why she needed to raise such a public ruckus about it, especially since she didn't even try to get alimony or a check for "pain and suffering." A quiet divorce would have left her as the honorable, wronged woman. Instead, her divorce was aired from here to Newark, and made people wonder if she was unstable.

Frank recently mentioned that he thinks it was more delayed reaction to the Morelli boy – that she protested Dickie the way she wished she'd protested about the bakery incident. That would actually make sense to me, though she's never said so.

Anyhow, after that, Stephanie wanted to live on her own and so found a good-paying job – at a lingerie company of all things. Though I would have felt better if she had returned home, I was proud of her gumption. She seemed to have found her niche, a career, and I got my hopes up that maybe that would lift her beyond the 'Burg. Now that she was divorced, she'd need a solid job. But no, she got laid off and the company turned out to be tainted by Mob ownership. Worse and worse, she then got that ridiculous job with Vinnie Plum.

I mostly remembered Vinnie as the strange Plum nephew who put Wesson oil in his hair every Halloween and then looked just like Dracula. Now an adult, he still looks sinister and he runs a business where he rubs shoulders with sketchy, dangerous people every day. I swear that since she started working with him, Stephanie always seems on the verge of being kidnapped or worse.

What am I saying? She's actually _been _kidnapped or held at gunpoint by killers on multiple occasions. May the Lord forgive me, I even ran over one of the lunatics with my car. I'd do it again in a heartbeat to save her life, right this very minute if needed. But, how many candles will I need to light and how many "Our Fathers" will be needed before she's done?

If that weren't enough – and believe me, it's more than enough – I'm constantly besieged by calls about her reputation and the crazy things she's been seen doing. Why me? I'm not strong enough sometimes to cope. Frank says not to worry, that things are different these days. But, her life is not safe, and honestly she doesn't seem all that happy.

I truly don't know what to do. I've tried setting her up with eligible men, and with other jobs, but she shrugs them off. I've even come around to supporting the idea of her marrying that Morelli boy, Joe. Just to be at peace, to be happily married like Frank and me, to have a rewarding life. I could finally rest.

Now, don't be confused. When she first mentioned that Joe Morelli had started coming around, I began looking for Frank's gun again. But he told me to hold off, that he'd heard from everyone that Joe had changed in the service. That he'd done a complete turn-around and become an upstanding person. I remember Frank telling me that he would never actually _like _Joe. But if Stephanie chose him of her own free will _and_ he was respectful to her in public and private, Frank accepted it.

In an unusually hard voice, though, Frank assured me that If Joe took one step out of line, he would find himself in a very bad way. He wouldn't get the chance to become another Dickie. In the meantime, Frank insisted we should try to be polite for Stephanie's sake. If this was her chance for happiness we should support her. He's always been my voice of reason.

Listening closely to the neighbors, and to what I heard while shopping and at church, it seemed that Frank was right. Joe is respected for the right reasons in the community. He seems free of the Mob connections of his parents' and grandparents' generations. Since Uncle Louie, his brothers in the Family, and their pet District Attorney got swept away in that RICO sting a few years ago, Joe will never have that kind of pressure.

And he seems to genuinely like Stephanie. He knows how to behave himself and comes to dinner like a polite young man. He has a house nearby and a respectable job with the police.

I also know that both his and Frank's families would accept them marrying. In the old-country rules that are alive and well in the 'Burg, he'd be making up for sullying her reputation years ago. They call it "doing the right thing."

Personally, I think a lot of those old rules would have been better left behind in the old country. But, it does seem like she loves him back so a marriage would be the next logical step. A step that she shows no sign of taking. I think she doesn't want to grow up for some reason. She wants romance in a practical world, she wants adventure in a dangerous world.

I try to give her more perspective and tell her about the daughters of neighbors and friends who are happy with their lives, or with their stable jobs. Just last week I told her about Betty Lufkin's niece who who got a job at Avis and gets a discount on respectable, safe used cars that she can afford with her own salary.

I keep hoping Stephanie will reach out to Betty's niece or any of the other young ladies I mention, to find out that they really are doing well and are happy. I already know that inviting some of them over for a nice dinner or dessert with Stephanie won't work – I've tried that. She just sneaks out the back, leaving me to apologize.

I worry that, fundamentally, she wants only that which she cannot have.

This especially came into focus when she'd started hanging out with those men that Joe calls thugs. I don't know that they really are criminals, but that one fellow called Ranger seems so sure of himself and smug. I see her gaze at him like he makes the sun come out in the morning. He seems comfortable enough with putting her in danger, but there's no indication that he's ever even asked her out on a date. He's handsome and acts like he's beyond all the conventions.

In short, I'd recently realized that he reminds me of John Kader.

So, of course I've redoubled my efforts to help my Stephanie see the value of coming to terms with the world she lives in. With getting married and established in a family. There's protection in being a wife. If my girls are going to live here in the 'Burg, I want that protection for both of them.

Stephanie rails that the 'Burg is stuck in the 1960s. And, based on what I see on TV, probably she's right. But, for Heaven's sake! If she's going to live here, she needs to understand who she's living amongst. She's not going to single-handedly change the way the entire 'Burg lives and thinks. She has a couple of choices and needs to make one.

If she wants to live here, her best choice to be accepted without drowning us in the gossip that makes us all crazy, is to learn how to fit in. In short, she needs to marry and/or get a decent job. But she's so headstrong. The way I was when I was younger. The difference is that I absolutely had to grow up, but I'm starting to think that Frank and I have helped her put that off for too long in our well-meant attempts to shelter her.

Her other decent choice is to move away, the way Valerie tried. I don't want Stephanie to leave; I would miss her more than I could say. But I believe that she'd find someplace where she could belong, and not have to rebel anymore.

Either way, she could find happiness and be safe.

And, the incessant, insane gossip about her would end. Yet another story of her being seen traipsing around covered in garbage? Escorting a naked, Crisco-covered fat man to the police station? Driving and then blowing up yet another car that a Welfare-recipient would be embarrassed to drive?

The stories reflect badly on Frank as a father, that he doesn't make sure she is safe and has nice things. They show me to be a bad mother who never taught my daughter basic decorum. Now that Valerie is back, the stories about her sister and our family's oddness could taint her and their girls also, blighting yet another generation.

Some days it makes me so sick to my stomach that I have to find something, anything, to take my mind off it. I've cleaned my house to the point where people really could eat off the floor. I've washed and ironed everything I can find. I've even done Valerie's mountain of laundry and diapers several times just to have something else on which to focus.

And, honestly, I know I've started to drink a little too much in order to cope. It's just that seeing her in constant danger and hearing the comments hurts me to the core. It's like being back in the worst days of my life, over and over, with the added pain of constantly fearing for my daughter's life. I just don't know what to do, but I can't keep going on like this.

If she won't make changes for herself, I wish she could at least understand the impact her actions have on the rest of us who live here. She's such a caring soul but so blind to how she affects her family. Hoping it will trigger her empathy, I've taken to telling her how the families we know in-common have easier lives because their daughters don't do the crazy things she does. Maybe then she'll understand. Frank doesn't think it will work, but what else can I do?

Frank and I have talked about this. He tells me to not listen, to just let it all go. I've tried, but I don't know how. Frank says that he doesn't care about the gossip. He just cares that Stephanie is okay. He's always been a strong man. As for me, I'm trying to learn how to not care, but it doesn't come naturally.

I hear the front door as Frank comes in the house, rescuing me from my thoughts. His footsteps start up the stairs, and when he opens the bedroom door I feel safety and warmth fill the room. For the first time since opening today's letter I feel like maybe I could deal with this whole situation.

"Helen, what's the matter? What do you need?" He sits down on the bed and puts his arm around me. He is still a man of few words, but he always knows the words I need from him. And I would do anything for him.

I show him the letter and wait until he finishes reading it. While he does, I think about the fundamental problem. I'm going to have to explain this to Valerie and Stephanie. They need to know what's about to happen. Even if John's old harpy of a mother, Magda Kader, weren't still alive and ready to badmouth me, there's no way I could hide that I inherited a house that's only a few blocks away. A house that some Kader cousins are currently living in.

He looks over at me, a frown on his face, but I can clearly read the caring in his deep-set eyes. I can tell he's starting to think about the next steps. He's the practical one, the steady hand.

"Frank, what should I do?" I ask him. "I've never told them _any _of this. They have no idea. This will bring back all the old stories."

Frank looks at me, his eyes steady. "Hon, you have to tell them everything. They should hear it from you first." He looks at me and I know it's true. I suspect he sees the fear on my face when he adds, "They're grown up and they'll be furious on your behalf. Times are different, now."

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "You know, Kader owed you much more than this, but at least he tried to do something right, finally, the _stanna mabaych_." Hearing Frank call John Kader an SOB in Jersey Italian, which I know he slips into when he's especially angry, gives me a glow of satisfaction. Frank will always stand by me. He always has.

He holds me closer and takes my free hand with his. "Helen, you've known I would have adopted your son. He'd have been a Plum and _our _son, just because he was yours." I feel him kiss me lightly on the top of my head, through my hair. "Your daughters will be just as strong for you."

I sit next to him, comforted by his touch, but still don't know what to say. After a few minutes' pause, Frank hugs me again and adds, "You mother, she'll support you too." I feel him chuckling under his breath. "In fact, crazy old bat that she is, she's probably ready to take on Magda now. Edna doesn't give a rat's ass what people say anymore." He looks at me with a small smile. "I bet she'd win, too. I want ringside seats." His smile broadens slightly, and I almost smile also at the image.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. "Frank, can you please be there with me? When I tell them?" I feel so weak asking him, but I know that I'll need to feel his strength at my side to get through this. Mostly I'm the one who seems strong and decisive, but it's really because I know he always has my back.

"Helen, wherever you need me." I feel him nod. Still holding me with his arm, he leans forward a bit to catch my eye. "You know, it might help our girls to know." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Stephanie especially – my pumpkin is how I remember you when we were growing up. But she's 30 now." Ah, Frank's seen that, too.

He squeezes me lightly again. "Knowing what you went through might help her understand things a little better." We sit in silence for awhile together, gazing out the bedroom window on the far wall. The distant chatter from the TV in the background is the only sound.

"What next?" I ask him, looking back at Frank, willing him to help me take the next step.

"I'll call the girls and ask them to stop by this afternoon." He adds, under his breath, "Without all their hangers-on and sideshows for once." After another pause, he speaks up again. "Talk to your mother first, so she can be ready." I nod at him, feeling terrified yet safe at the same time. He hugs me again and adds, "Helen, I'll stand by you through the whole thing. No matter what happens. I'm at your side. No doubts."

I straighten up. I can do this. No... _We _can do this, together, as a family. I squeeze Frank's hand and then let it go as I stand up, ready to move forward at last.


End file.
